Prophet In Indigo

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The Red-eyed royalty taste their first bite of insurgency. A sour flavor, I'm sure. On thrones of those below, they thought themselves above. Above consequence, above rules, above the very laws they see enforced. A self-sustaining charade built on nepotism and blood money. An illusion that can be broken both with force, and shattered with cunning.

N O W . I T . B R E A K S . A N D . I T . S H A T T E R S .

Oppressed lambs rebel against the watchful shepherds, for their vigil has waned. They thought the silent sickness of subterfuge would cease in their erudition. Perhaps foolishly thinking the stringed sufferers had lost any will to fight back? Whatever the reason, the fools have slipped. As they scramble to undo what can no longer be undone, those such as yourself cut ties with their hedonistic hubris and seek perhaps to proffer aid to the cause you once ignored.

If that is so, then the choice is as follows:

March with the ignorant, and play puppet to the great stage painted red. Dance with the awoken, and play part to the revolution to come. The choice was not and shall not ever truly be yours, that is illusion. Freedom is little more than fleeting synaptical copium to huff when there is no other way to endure. Your choices are already made, fate has taken the liberty of choosing for you.

What choice you will make I would not and cannot divine. I would not as-- false as it may be- your illusion of choice is something you depend on. I cannot as I may be blamed for the result you inevitably choose when things perchance go awry.

In life, and in death- fate is our true warden. Prisoners to its strings, locked in its cage, forced to perform upon its stage as marionettes.

All cogs of a meticulously engineered timepiece designed to keep a fragile device from falling apart.

NOW WAKE.

All I have just said is a lie, utter nonsense. You began to believe it, didn't you? It made you angry, you felt upset.

Put aside that dread. Fate is a falsehood in itself. No navigator of such a wheel would allow predestination of my variety if a change in the path of time could upset the median. I am no oracle, only a diviner of the paths yet to be explored. I can only see one future... That is, until others are considered.

Your choice will still not truly matter, a split will occur, fracturing both you and me and all here into two seperate verses. One where you chose to flee into the warmth of ignorance's cup, and the other where you bravely face the spectre of death.

But this preamble has overstayed its welcome. What matters is that the choice is made, not how it is made.

S L E E P . O R . S U F F E R . . W H I C H . S H A L L . I T . B E ?

A Dangerous Invitation

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Born a human, ascended a demon. The Bloodstar was notorious even among other demons for her promiscuous nature. A victim of the world of man in life, in death she would be its trauma. No mercy would come to those who had wronged her, only lust without libido.

In her final moments, she was sickly, a bloody beaten mess covered in petrol with a lit match deciding her fate. She looked to her murderers, and she left them a smirk.

"I will drag you to Abbadon, and there in that godless pit... You will scream for a mercy I nor any gods will grant."

The men surrounding her stepped back shook as she burst into flames and screamed in primal agony. Declared them worse than dead in a tempest of unholy rage. It was a curse. The one they had called a witch, villified as a spinster, who they had judged only for her free spirit... They knew at this moment that their futures were forfeit.

And as promised, she came for them... She dragged each and every one of them into a torturous samsara of unholy burning and lustful sinning. Pain without pleasure, perfect retribution. This was the only thing they deserved. The filth that did her wrong were now the filth being wronged. But she would end the tainted cycle. There would be no ambition left for these predators become prey, no funerals to bury their sins... no tomb to accomodate their bodies. Perfect Annihilation. An act designed to end violence is always an act to encourage violence. A cycle of retribution without end, each sin commited with an intention to overshadow the last. Wrath without warrant. Carnal Ouroboros. All that would remain is violence without validation.

But she would see them not have the chance to continue this spiral of guts and gore... Suspended were their barely-living bodies in the core of the earth, to cook over decades while she returned dutifully to remind them of her deadly promise. Centuries go by of this perfect torment, and so utterly and completely are her victims broken in body and spirit both.

They had a choice, she invited them to hell via temptation and despite logic; they accepted her dangerous invitation. An acceptance so damning yet the foolhardy so fervorous. Thinking in their hubris they could repeat the same as before... They knew not how the tables had been turned against them. And lost in a malaise of libido and temptation, she kept her promise.

Dragged flailing and screaming to their final rest, forced down into submission, drained of what made them human. A withered husk, greyed of flesh, crushed bones and near-emptied of blood and organs. Barely alive, but not yet free of their lantern of life.

Their blood so boiled it reached the temperature of a star, so much they would spill that it would burst a dam. As she looked down sadistically upon the macabre state she had made of her victims, she smirked in the same manner as she had when she was in their position in life.

"Beg me, little weakling! Beg for mercy. Scream for a savior that will never come~"

In their moment of desperation, they pleaded, they begged, they howled like wolves, screamed like the spider scorned. Something, anything- to save them from this fate.

"No one is coming. No one except... you~"

" E N E R G Y . D R A I N . "